Yes, it's just a small town as official population figures go. Grand Junction is only Colorado's 15th largest city, about the size of Edina, Minnesota, but it's also the center of the nation's 268th largest Metropolitan Statistical Area, a little bigger than Sioux City.

Between my shift at the Day Center and attending a trial (for background research on the prosecution of child abuse cases), I stopped for lunch at a Main Street Pizzeria. Grand Junction's Main Street is being reconstructed, a few blocks at a time, so the businesses in those closed off blocks must rely more than normal on pedestrian traffic for a few months.

[The redo is an update of a pedestrian-oriented, serpentine mall lined with trees, planters and sculptures that was originally built in 1962 — six years before work began on Minneapolis's supposedly groundbreaking Nicollet Mall.]

As I walked down the street, I noticed virtually the entire workforce doing concrete finishing work and other construction was Hispanic. Inside the pizza joint, which was doing a good business, I came across a newspaper with this story describing the challenges of local orchards finding good local labor. This, in a town with unemployment hovering around 10 percent.

More than 300 local job-seekers have trooped into Talbott Farms' office
this year to inquire about jobs in the orchards and vineyards.

Still,
out in the fields, most of the workers doing the early thinning and
spraying have come here on temporary guest-worker visas from Mexico.

It
is not that Talbott and other growers don't want to hire fellow
Americans hurting from extended unemployment. But many of those
job-seekers aren't willing to tackle the tough, low-wage, long-hour farm
labor.

Coincidentally, I had spoken with a number of men at the Day Center about their efforts to find work.

One man has been doggedly pursuing a dish washing job at local pub. Nearly a month after his first contact with them, he headed out today for an interview and was optimistic about landing something.

"I always want to work," he told me, "but I haven't had a job since November. It's been really tough."

Another man, who showed up here last week from Moab, now has his feet under him and has lost that dazed look he had when he arrived at the Day Center. One of the regulars escorted him around town and showed him where he could get assistance, a daily meal, a bus pass and a bed at a shelter.

He, too, wants work. He has been to the Workforce Center, which told him about a meat cutting job. "I have experience — you need it to cut meat — but it only pays $7.50 an hour," he said. "A skilled job like that should pay at least $12."

This man likes it here, better than Moab, where there's no shelter that accepts homeless men and the only soup kitchen serves leftovers from the school lunch program. He has some serious psychological effects from his alcoholism, bad enough that he has stopped drinking for eight months and takes antabuse and other medications. He seems determined to be productive, but he will struggle for the rest of his life.

"Are you taking your medications?" is a serious question I hear all the time here.

The third man talked to me about his plans to leave town.

His theory, the opposite of the other man's, is that smaller communities are more receptive to homeless people who want to work. Because there's no safety net in those towns, there's no identifiable homeless population, so he can look for employment without being branded as "one of those."

He is intelligent and very presentable. He keeps himself busy here
playing guitar or reading, and at the end of the day he helped with the
clean up. But like the other two men, he exhibits the stream-of-consciousness talk that signals other issues at work.

I like all three of these guys and wish them luck. But I also see how Hispanic laborers can come to town and "take jobs away from the locals."

Language and cultural barriers are a piece of cake compared to what some of these guys carry.

The planetary crisis we face may be made up of machinery and market
failures and sheer masses of humanity struggling to live, but I'm more
and more convinced that it is not at its core really a material crisis
at all. Rather, the planetary crisis is a crisis of vision; we
see a growing and darkening void where our future ought to be.
The average person, presented with accurate information about the state
of the world, can see no way forward at all. The path we're on appears
to end in darkness and a swift, cataclysmic drop. Most folks, entirely
understandably, choose not to look.

That void in our future vision, I believe, is not accidental. In the
40 years since the first Earth Day, a whole set of industries has grown
large attacking scientists and conservationists; falsely complexifying
issues; spinning the news of environmental crimes; launching astroturf
front groups; endowing think tanks; bribing politicians; obfuscating the
need for systemic change by pushing funding towards NGOs that advocate
the most limited of personal actions; and by promoting (in the most
direct financial sense) cultural work that promotes cynicism and a
disdain (if not a hatred) for idealists, from talk radio to teabagging.
In a twist on the old axiom that tyrants don't care if they are hated so
long as their subjects don't love each other, these industries don't
care if the future they're offering us looks dark, so long as no other
futures we can imagine look brighter. Despairing consumers still buy,
and they cause less trouble for the investing class. "We have an
economy," as Paul Hawken says, "where we steal the future, sell it in
the present, and call it G.D.P." Keeping the future dark hides the
crime.

Grand
Junction firefighters battle a blaze on a frame structure at the Rocky
Mt. Court at 1211 South Fifth Street early this morning. A man living
there fell asleep with a lit cigarette while on oxygen, which
investigators believe started the fire. With the help of neighbors, the
man and his dog escaped.

Reader Hal Davis forwarded me this column from a Hartford newspaper. Colin McEnroe is writing about a Connecticut court case, but he's also writing about every poor school child in the country.

I've decided that Sheff v. O'Neill is not really a legal case and
that none of [the] settlements or proposed forms of redress will ever work,
unless we change. It's a moral case. It makes a moral argument. The
problem is that we don't listen to moral arguments anymore, so you've
got to dress them up as lawsuits.

The thing that broke down worst of all was us --
the people with hope and resources -- and our supposed Judeo-Christian
values. Those values are unambiguous about what we're supposed be be
doing for others who are poor, who are sick, who are helpless. We can
do it through our churches or through Boys' and Girls' Clubs or Big
Brothers Big Sisters or through some other mentoring or intervention.
But we're supposed to do it. Those values are supposed to be the spine
of this country.

But if we lived them -- even just a little --
there would have been no compelling case to make in Sheff v. O'Neill,
because each of use [sic] would have identified those children as our moral
responsibility, a long time ago.

School choice doesn't quite get at the kids McEnroe cites, mired in "experiential poverty," who "have never been to a movie theater or
ridden a pony" or spoken to someone who has noticed their unique gifts.

Liberals have been taking a drubbing lately for making moral arguments instead of economic ones or Constitutionally principled ones.

McEnroe's piece calls us to remember the moral case for our communities and our governments.

A morning at the Day Center contains the threads of dozens of stories, ranging from poignant to hilarious.

One of our guests, if you met him on the street, would give you no indication that he was homeless — except for the backpack and rather stylish valise in which he carries his laundry. "Alex" is calm, cheerful, well-kept and college-educated veteran — just the sort of person an employer would hire if he showed up to fill a job opening.

For example, with the U.S. Census.

The Census recruited at the shelters for canvassers. The screening test had 27 questions on things like basic math and map reading; 17 right answers were required to pass, and Alex missed only one. He was the only one out of three dozen applicants who met the standard.

He became the sort of resident advisor on how to reach the homeless. Sometimes they took his advice. For example, the plan was to descend on the Day Center and the line at the soup kitchen with 35 Census takers in red Census vests, hats and badges.

Uh, no, said Alex. You only need four or five, and keep the badges under the vests. Give me a day to let people know what's going on. Otherwise, you won't get anybody to talk to you.

That's what they did, and it worked all right.

There was also an effort to actively check places like campsites to see if anyone is living there. Alex told of Census-takers riding in on snowmobiles to mountain campsites where there was still four feet of snow. (But no campers.)

Alex was assigned to another group, headed by a recently retired army officer, that was planning to do a sweep of the river, where a fair number of
homeless live. They were going to start at 5 a.m. and patrol through the woods with flashlights.

Uh, no, said Alex again. Those people have guns and dogs. How would you feel about someone coming through your bedroom with a flashlight at 5 in the morning?

The leader, who Alex said reminded him of some of the fresh second lieutenants he served with in Vietnam, thanked him for his input and said, "We're going to make the effort."

Alex said he wasn't going. So he was sent with another crew out to Rabbit Valley, an area along the river in the desert near Utah.

In the middle of nowhere, they found one camp trailer with a satellite dish set up and a few ATVs. All five Census-takers piled out of their van, with their clipboards, badges and red vests. It was 8 a.m.

Alex was given the assignment to knock on the trailer door, with the other four behind him. (If someone gets shot, why not the homeless guy?)

A woman came to the door in her bathrobe and peered out. What are you doing here? she asked in surprise.

We're from the Census. Have you been counted? asked Alex.

I'm from Palisade (the other end of the valley) and I have been counted, she said. Do you want some coffee?

Alex's crew returned without any new forms completed. The river crew also came back empty-handed.

Since Alex knew people on the river, he asked them what happened.

We heard someone coming and we hid, was the reply. We had the dogs ready to go, but they never saw us.

Golfer Brian Davis calls a penalty on himself in a sudden death playoff that costs him nearly $400,000 in prize money, and even more in related earnings.

How often do you see that kind of ethic in professional sports — and in the business world that includes professional sports?

Davis sensed that his back swing brushed a reed in a waste area and called over a rules official to check the television replay. Slow-motion replays confirmed the infraction, and Davis took a two-stroke penalty, handing the win to Jim Furyk.

"To have the tournament come down that way is definitely not the way I
want to win the golf tournament," Furyk said. "It's obviously a tough
loss for him, and I respect and admire what he did.

"To be there
and be in the battle and have an opportunity to win, and then have to
call a penalty on yourself has got to be extremely disappointing.

"It's
a testament to our game and the people that play on the Tour, and that
we have so many guys that do that.

"It's just awkward to see it
happen at such a key moment. Awkward for him to lose that way, and a
little awkward for me to win."

We biked out to Fruita, a small town west of Grand Junction, for the reopening of a local pizza cafe that had moved into a new building after failing to come to terms with its former landlord.

The Hot Tomato Cafe renovated an empty building around the corner once occupied by a dry cleaners. (Around the corner is about as far as you can go in Fruita and still be downtown.)

We arrived sometime around 1:00 and the line stretched from the order counter to the door. It was the same way when we left, and the festivities involving bands in the street hadn't even begun to take shape yet.

You can see the improvements the two women owners have made to the building — adding a spacious outdoor seating area along the side. Landscaping is still in process, and the bike parking might need a little work, but no one was complaining.

Less apparent than the paint job and the cheery interior is the role a unique and beloved business can play in a community. The pizza and beer at Hot Tomato are good, and cycling is part of the vibe, but it was clear that most of the people showing up today were there because they wanted this little institution to exist in their lives.

I get really tired of hearing about how the market is all-important, and how economic principles (are you listening, Craig Westover?) should determine how governments and societies make decisions. The adherents to this thinking would have us believe that we have made the choice when we have a Domino's instead of a Hot Tomato in our neighborhoods. And that if a Pizza Hut franchise can come up with the financing where a Hot Tomato can't, well, that's as it should be.

You could try that line of thought in this pizza joint this afternoon, but I don't think you'd get any takers.